Heartbreaker (Brennan and Esposito Series)

by Tania Carver

  He looked round. At the far end of the lane there was a lump on the ground. Not the usual mattress or full bin bags that got dumped. He knew what the shape was immediately. He ran towards it.

  ‘Get an ambulance,’ he called, ‘now.’

  As he spoke, he hoped it wasn’t too late.

  The body of Avi Patel lay there, the life bleeding out of him.

  PART SIX

  HEARTS TO HEARTS

  74

  Phil was awoken by a knock on his front door. Not the bell; a knock.

  His first thought: Marina. She’s back.

  He got quickly out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, made his way downstairs. Then stopped, halfway down. Through the bevelled, coloured half-glass of the front door he could see a silhouette, and it wasn’t Marina.

  The small amount of hope he had been holding in his heart dissipated immediately and he resumed his downward journey, trudging now, in no hurry to answer.

  Another knock.

  Better not be UKIP canvassers, he thought. He was in just the mood to let them know what he thought of them.

  He stopped again. What if it was the woman who had called before, the one claiming to be Fiona Welch?

  Looking round, he tried to find a weapon. Couldn’t see anything.

  Another knock. Accompanied by a voice this time: ‘DI Brennan…’

  He relaxed. Not Fiona Welch.

  He made his way down, opened the door. There stood DCI Cotter.

  ‘Morning, ma’am,’ he said, defensiveness creeping into his voice. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  Cotter looked directly at him. He saw the strain on her face, the dark circles beneath her eyes. He took in her rumpled, creased clothes. It didn’t look like she had slept in them. It looked like she had been too busy for that.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she said.

  He stood aside, let her in. Closed the door behind her.

  ‘Coffee, please,’ she said once inside, and Phil, unquestioningly, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He emptied the cafetière of the previous day’s grounds, filled it once more.

  ‘Black,’ she said. ‘And strong.’

  He told her to go and sit in the living room, busied himself in the kitchen. He had slept well. His body and mind were fizzing with misplaced energy after the interview with Adderley, the accidental meeting with Marina. He had thought of using alcohol to help him relax, as he had the previous nights, but decided against it. Instead, he had gone for a run, pounded the streets of Moseley, earthing all that muscular and mental electricity as he went. He had returned home exhausted but strangely refreshed. He had eaten a decent meal – not takeaway junk – and listened to a couple of Band of Horses CDs. After that, sleep had come relatively easily.

  Coffee made, he took two mugs into the living room. Cotter placed hers on a side table, barely glancing at the design on the mug: Hammer Films’ Countess Dracula. A little in-joke between himself and Marina.

  He took a mouthful of coffee, found it too hot, put it down. He waited for Cotter to speak.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ she said eventually, her voice sounding as worn out as she looked.

  Phil waited once more.

  Cotter almost laughed. ‘I can’t believe I’m about to say this to you, DI Brennan.’

  DI Brennan. Not Phil. That didn’t sound good.

  She took a mouthful of coffee. Liked it. Took another one. Replaced the mug. ‘I’ve… got a proposition for you.’

  Phil imagined the worst. This was obviously some way to get him to leave quietly, without any fuss. A way of brushing his recent behaviour under the departmental carpet, avoiding any unwelcome or difficult questions. Hush money. Or at least a hush pension.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I… want you to come back.’

  Phil wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. ‘You… what?’

  ‘I want you back.’

  ‘In the department? MIS?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Well, need you back would be more accurate.’

  ‘I thought Imani was in charge?’

  Cotter looked at him levelly, holding his gaze for an uncomfortable length of time, then glancing away.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  She looked up once more. ‘This investigation needs a new CIO. I want it to be you again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just what I said.’ She was snapping, her voice rising in anger. She sat back, composing herself. ‘Sorry. Lack of sleep.’

  ‘What… what’s happened?’

  Cotter sighed, took another mouthful of coffee.

  Told him.

  ‘Twenty-four hours,’ said Cotter. ‘That’s it. No more, no less.’

  Phil sat back in his armchair, coffee long gone cold. He had listened to everything Cotter had said, made no comment, taken it all in. And now this. He still said nothing.

  Cotter waited for his response.

  ‘The Assistant Chief Constable wasn’t happy,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘And that’s putting it mildly. After everything that’s happened in the last few days, with you, with DC Oliver, with DC Patel…’ She sighed. ‘It was a tough ask. I had to go out on a limb for you. He only did this grudgingly. After that, it’s handed over to another team and they can start afresh. And no doubt we’ll be tainted throughout the West Midlands. Untouchable.’

  Phil nodded, eventually spoke.

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  ‘Because it’s been one cock-up after another,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Why did you go out on a limb for me? Why d’you need me back so soon, so badly? Why me?’

  ‘Because you’re good. Because you know the case. Or part of it, and it won’t take you long to come up to speed on the rest.’ She leaned forward also, her coffee forgotten. ‘I need you on this. And I need an answer quickly.’ Seeing he didn’t speak straight away, she sat back again. ‘Twenty-four hours for you to come up with something. To break the case. That’s all. Then it’s taken off our hands. For good.’

  Phil smiled. ‘So, damned if I do, damned if I don’t, is that it?’

  Cotter reddened. ‘It was the best I could do, under the circumstances.’

  He thought some more. ‘And… Marina. She was the one who asked you about this? About me?’

  ‘She suggested you, yes. She saw you yesterday. Talked to you.’

  Phil neither confirmed nor contradicted her words.

  ‘Can you work with her?’

  ‘I’ve always managed to do so in the past,’ he said.

  ‘I mean can you work with her now,’ said Cotter, irritation and exasperation taking over her voice, ‘after everything that’s happened recently between you?’

  Phil shrugged. Aimed for nonchalant; didn’t know if he’d managed it. ‘If she doesn’t have a problem, then I don’t either.’

  Cotter looked relieved. She reached for her mug, realised the coffee had turned cold and the colour of a dredged canal. Left it where it was. She stood up.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘Shall I wait for you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re giving the morning briefing. We’ve got to go.’

  Phil stood too. He was trying to keep his face as blank as possible, devoid of emotion, but inside it was a different story. He was squirming, champing at the bit to be going.

  He was ready for the front line again.

  75

  He’d known it. Known it was too good to be true. Or should have known, should have suspected at least.

  He’d recognised her voice. Not entirely, not enough to turn and run, just enough to proceed warily, with caution. As soon as he’d called her, as soon as she spoke, he felt something wasn’t right. He should have just turned then, driven away, tried another night. But he had stuck with it. The need, the hunger inside him had been so strong that he couldn’t fight it. It went far beyond desire, anything so rational as that. He craved another victimised woman, had to h
ave her, no matter what.

  No matter what.

  Now he looked down at the bed where Imani Oliver lay stretched out. He had secured her wrists and ankles at each corner of the bed, spread-eagling her body tightly over the metal mesh frame as he had done with all the others. She wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  After securing her, he had begun cutting off her clothes. At the start, embarking on this course of action, it had been something that had to be done, an expedient task. But as time had gone on, this part of his work had taken on aspects of the ritual, become a mini-ritual in its own right, even.

  First the top half, the scissors – huge and sharp, dressmaker’s scissors – gliding smoothly through the fabric like an ocean-going liner through a becalmed sea. Sliding all the way from neck to waist, shoulder to wrist. Then repeated again for the bottom half, waist to ankle. Then the clothing removed, folded and destroyed. Like her old shell, her old identity, being removed, revealing the real person, the woman he wanted to see, beneath.

  She was naked, yes, but that didn’t mean he was going to do anything sexual to her. Play with her, anything like that. He wasn’t some creepy pervert, doing this because he enjoyed it, derived some twisted pleasure from it, he told himself as he cut. This was work. It had a purpose. And yes, he would look at her naked body lying there when he had finished, and yes, he would feel some arousal within himself at what he saw. But that was obvious, to be expected. He was a red-blooded heterosexual male. It was only natural. That didn’t mean he would do anything about it. He wasn’t an animal.

  He had gagged her, too. Not that he thought anyone could hear – the soundproofing on the walls should have seen to that – but it wasn’t worth taking the chance. Besides, he had left the first couple of women without their gags and couldn’t bear the absolute drivel that came out of their mouths. So the gag it was.

  He stared at her, ignoring the growing erection he could feel in his trousers, focusing his mind on the body before him. But he couldn’t stop himself from travelling back to the previous night, going over what had happened once again, trying to work out what had gone wrong and how he could put it right.

  He should have just driven away. As soon as he saw that policewoman walking towards his car, he should have just turned and gone. But he hadn’t. And he knew why. He had thought about it enough times. At first, he was ashamed to admit, he had sat there unable to move, paralysed by indecision. If he drove off, she might see him, recognise him. If he stayed where he was, he ran the risk of her having already identified him. So he did nothing. Waited.

  But he had learned something from his previous attempt. He had come to this meeting armed. An untraceable gun. There were gangs all over Birmingham. Easy enough to get if you knew which pub to go into, who to ask. That had been simple. And the other thing he had with him had been just as simple to obtain, in its own way. An electric stun gun. Easy. Bought from a mail order company in America, no questions asked. Sent to a false American address, then forwarded on to him. People offered that service. Again, if you knew the right people to talk to.

  What he held in his hand as Imani Oliver approached looked like a large door handle. He waited until she came right up to the car before extending his hand and pressing the trigger. One point two million volts coursed through her, changing her expression from near triumph – she had recognised him and was about to speak, alert the rest of the team – to extreme agony.

  Then he had to move fast. He was out of the car, catching her prone body, bundling her into the back seat. And that should have been that. But as he got back behind the wheel, his heart froze. Another police officer was running straight towards him.

  He had reacted so fast it was like he hadn’t thought at all. He picked up the gun from the passenger seat, leaned out of the window and fired at the approaching figure. Once. Twice. Three times. The man spun round, twisted and dropped. He didn’t want to waste any more time. Throwing the gun down beside him, he drove away as fast as he could. Avoiding the main road in case there were more of them, taking the side streets like he had planned, until he was away and free.

  It was only when he got back to the flats, running on adrenalin, that reptilian part of his brain having taken over, that he stopped to think. Had he just killed a man? An innocent man? Well, a police officer, but still. Someone who had no business to be there, who wasn’t part of his plan. And he had sat there in the car, Oliver still out of it in the back seat, and wondered why he wasn’t feeling the remorse, the doubt, the guilt he had expected to. He felt nothing, didn’t even need to rationalise his actions to his conscience. Collateral damage, he had thought. Either wounded or dead, that was all he was. A necessary casualty for the greater good. His greater good. If he hadn’t been there trying to interfere, he would still be alive. But he had been and he wasn’t. So that was that. And yes, he had decided, that was something he could live with.

  He stared down at the body on the bed once more. Wondered what to do next. She had come round a couple of times but he had successfully stunned her once more. Now she lay there staring at him, eyes wide in terror, pleading silently. Would the ritual still work? Even though she wasn’t who she had claimed to be? Could the programming still be done? He didn’t know. He would have to wait and see.

  He stared at her some more. Tried to form answers in his head. Something came. He smiled. Why not? he thought. Why not give it a go? If she wasn’t in that state of release to begin with, he would just have to work harder to put her there. Why not treat it as a challenge and relish it? He nodded. Yes. That’s what he would do. It wasn’t perfect. But he would give it his best shot. Whatever happened, things would work out better than the last one.

  But that was something to look forward to later. There were things he had to do first.

  He looked down at the prone woman. Smiled. Knelt beside her.

  ‘Soon,’ he said, whispering close to her ear. She tried to pull away but he ignored her. ‘Soon.’

  Then he stood up, and, mask in place once more, left the room.

  Imani Oliver would keep. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  Ever again.

  76

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ said Phil, scanning the tired, drawn faces before him. ‘Just wish it was under better circumstances.’

  He looked round the room. It felt like an age had passed since he was last there. But it also felt like no time at all. He glimpsed Marina standing off to the side, slightly apart from the group, not wanting to be directly in his eyeline. He felt his stomach turn over, those familiar pangs once more. Tried to rationalise: she was his wife. The woman he’d shared his life with until recently. Why was he so nervous about being in her presence? He looked at the other faces again. No time to think about Marina now. This was work. And he had to treat it as such.

  Apart from that private bubble of tension between him and Marina, in the rest of the team weariness was competing with tension.

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you what’s happened,’ he said. ‘Or who we’ve lost. I know how you’re feeling. But we have to pick ourselves up and carry on. These next twenty-four hours are crucial. For us, for Imani, for catching whoever did this. And I appreciate how tired you all are. But we still have to keep going. Right.’

  He looked round once more. His words seemed to have perked them up. A little, at any rate.

  ‘Also,’ he said, that familiar tension once more creeping into his voice, ‘we have the services of Marina Esposito for a few days longer. She’ll be staying on to help us catch him.’ He looked at her, wanting to say more but unsure what those words would be. She caught his eye; contact flared, then she turned away. He did likewise.

  ‘Right. Let’s get on with it. We need to move as quickly as possible. I appreciate you’ve all been doing that while I was sleeping, so let’s have some updates. Where are we? Ian?’

  ‘Preliminary ballistics report says it was a Glock automatic,’ said Sperring. ‘They’re seeing if it’s been used before for anything,
but they’re quite common among the gangs. The gangster’s handgun of choice.’

  ‘You think he’s a gang member?’ asked Phil.

  ‘No,’ said Sperring. ‘But they also supply guns. Would be relatively simple for him to buy one off them.’

  ‘Right. Time to get the confidential informants out. See if anyone’s heard anything about someone buying a gun, or being seen with gang members when they don’t look like they belong.’ He paused. ‘How many shots were heard?’

  ‘Three,’ said Sperring. ‘And Patel had three shots in him. He’s currently fighting for his life in hospital.’

  ‘So we can assume – dangerous word – that Imani wasn’t shot. He got her into the car some other way. I suppose, until we learn otherwise, we should be grateful for that. What about forensics from the scene? Anything?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Cotter. ‘The rain took care of most of it. The teams are still out looking, though.’

  Phil nodded.

  Sperring pushed himself away from the desk he had been leaning against. ‘We’ve been looking for the car all over the city. Uniforms, patrols, everyone’s been informed. A description’s gone out, CCTV checks, the lot. So far we’ve come up with nothing. He was clever. Changed the location to what we thought was a dead end. Except there was another way out through that industrial estate and he knew it. Sneaky bastard. I saw the car but didn’t get the make and model of it. It looked like a saloon, a Toyota Avensis, something like that. But I wouldn’t want to say. And the registration plates were obscured too. There were dents along the side, though, so that makes me think it was the same car used to run down Janine Gillen.’

  ‘Same guy, then,’ said Phil. ‘Not much doubt about that.’

  ‘I don’t think we’d be jumping to conclusions to think that,’ said Sperring. ‘The car was last seen heading towards the Kings Heath area. We’re getting uniforms to concentrate their search there. See if it’s been stashed, garaged, whatever.’